The Edge
Sarah Wolbach
Just to see what might happen,
I tuck my head into the crocodile’s maw.
An awkward fit, but her jaws open
wide enough for me to go in sideways.
I want the cut to be clean, at my neck.
No oven for me, or guillotine, though
it may look that way. It’s not suicide
I’m looking for, but I have decided
to live on the edge, and this seems
a good place to start.
Crocodiles are like us, muscling in
when they are hungry—they are always
hungry—grabbing what they want.
But they are gentle with their offspring.
Some mothers use their tongues to open the eggs,
carry the hatchlings in their mouths to the water.
My crocodile has one hundred teeth.
Her thick tongue is smooth, cushioning
the floor of her mouth, a slick, soft cradle.
I match my heartbeat with hers.
She will carry me to the river,
she will release me.
Sarah Wolbach’s poems have appeared in several journals and anthologies, and she was a finalist for the 2023 Banyan Poetry Prize. Her chapbook, Eclipse, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. Sarah holds an MFA from the Michener Center for Writers at UT Austin. She lived in Mexico for several years, and later in New York City. She now lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
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